


Asgard Manor

by nausicaa82



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Artist Steve Rogers, Depression, F/M, Getting Together, Gothic Horror AU, Homophobic Language, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution (mentioned), Sad, Superfamily (Marvel), Train Travel, Widowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa82/pseuds/nausicaa82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Anthony Stark - genius inventor, business magnate, reluctant father, and for-all-purposes a widower - must go finalize the purchase of Asgard Manor in the country during the Great War. However, the estate and the village nearby hold secrets that put his task and world in peril. Will he overcome his own past, grief, and budding alcoholism to defeat the demons of Odinsville before it's too late?</p><p>Please see note at beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 13, 1918

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is a Gothic Horror AU which will employ almost every trope, cliche, and plot device the genre adores. Some of these things can be triggering, and I will add tags (and pairings) as chapters are posted. The plot is based off of 'The Woman in Black', and I feel I must forewarn there will be attempted non-con, child abuse/neglect, and children dying including a stillbirth, among other things. Please check warnings and tags. Rated E for later chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is given a task he cannot refuse.

-Monday Morning-

“I don’t think this is a good time for me to travel out of the city.” Tony shifted in his seat and eyed the crystal decanter on the sideboard just beyond his reach. 

“Tony, my boy, after all the things I’ve done for you, every sin I’ve turned a blind eye on, every mess I’ve cleaned up, it’s your turn to help me now. I’ve got business here in the city to attend to and you need to pull your weight again,” Obadiah Stane replied without turning away from the window. 

“But Peter--”

“Will be perfectly fine with his nanny for a few days.” Obadiah turned now to face Tony, his face soft and sympathetic. “I think some time away from the house, out in the country, would do you well, for all of you actually. I’ll tell you what-- I’ll send Mrs. Hogan and Peter up later this week and you can have sometime on the lake away from the memories. Odinsville is a small town, and you’ll see how well our new factory will help bring it on into the twentieth century, make good jobs.” He walked from his desk to behind where the younger man was sitting and placed his hands on Tony’s shoulders. He rubbed some of the always present tension away, then leaned in to whisper low in his ear. 

“You can’t hold on to him forever. It’s been long enough, you need to come back.” Just like that, the tension was back, and Tony moved forward out of his seat, away from the touch. “Shake off this…” Obadiah was not quite sure how to describe it properly, “melancholia. You need to be strong now.” 

“Obie, I can't--”

“ _I can’t_ make any more excuses for you with the board. Do this, show you still have worth, or I won’t be able to stop them from removing you from the company, Tony. I know you haven’t cared about it for a while now, but your house is company property, and you should think about what would happen if you are evicted. Come on, it’s not like you lost your wi--”

“ENOUGH!” Tony screamed, surprising Obadiah and himself. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. Just don’t talk about him like he wasn’t important.” 

“Alright, I’m sorry, but I’m glad to hear you sound more like yourself. The train leaves this afternoon, and arrangements were made for the inn earlier this week. All in all, it’s a simple task-- inspect the grounds and negotiate the best price for it. I know there is a mansion there; we may be able to use it as housing or offices. It’s a bit of paper work, but I know you’re up for it. You’re a good businessman, and I have no doubt you’ll get us a good deal.” 

Tony could barely hear what Obadiah was saying. The faint images of his love that usually stayed right under the surface were all he wanted to focus on. He forced his head to nod at the right times, and his hands somehow picked up the portfolio with the itinerary, letters of introduction, train ticket, and bearer bonds to make the purchase. 

He walked out of the offices downtown and back to his townhouse without any thought, just the muscle memory of his legs taking him where he needed to go. He managed to get out that he had a business trip and handed the portfolio over to Jarvis at the door. Obadiah was right, the house brought back memories each time Tony entered it, good things he had forgotten years ago, now utterly painful when remembered. 

When he finally made it up the stairs, he saw through the door to his bed chambers Jarvis already placing shirts and waistcoats into his case. It was too much. Tony stood in the doorway, unable to make it all the way into the room during the day. The little light from the overcast skies made certain memories, unpleasant ones, fresh again like a wound reopened. He reached for the flask in his coat pocket, but stilled when he heard heavy little footsteps ascending and a squeal behind him. 

“Father!” Little arms wrapped around his calf, and the sudden weight crashing into him almost made his knees buckle. He steadied himself on the door frame as the young child whispered his plea. “Go to park with me?”

“No, Petey, I have to go away on a trip for a little while, but you’ll have fun with…” Peter immediately dropped his hold of Tony’s calf and ran away to his own room down the hall, slamming the door just as his nanny finished ascending the stairs with an apologetic smile. 

“Peter! That’s very disrespectful!” she scolded to the door. 

“I don’t blame him, Pep,” Tony interjected, relieved to have a distraction from his own bedroom. 

“It’s not you, Mr. Stark. Mr. Hogan told him it was going to be sunny this afternoon, and he got excited to be able to go out today. It’s been such a long winter,” she explained while walking closer to her employer. She reached out and adjusted his lopsided tie. Tony had always wondered how she was so good with the small details, she herself looking calm and put together even when she spent most of her time with a rambunctious and challenging child. Her dresses were always modest and functional but beautiful, and her strawberry blonde hair was never a strand out of place. 

“He does love being outside,” Tony stiffened and made his way into his room and straight to the bar along the wall. He topped off his flask and took a few tugs from the bottle while those in his employ mindfully looked away and busied themselves with packing his ties. The visions finally receded back and the sadness faded away to numbness in time for Peter to come running back as fast as he could. 

“We maked this for trip!” Peter presented a collection of papers with a hopeful smile. Tony bent to allow the boy to place the gift in his hands.

“How did you draw these so fast, sweetheart?”

“No, last week during snow.” Tony jerked his head towards Jarvis and Pepper, his eyes narrowing.

“You knew I was going away?” Tony asked accusingly. 

“Not until you gave me your itinerary just now, Sir,” Jarvis replied, and Pepper shook her head, confused. Peter pointed to the sheet on top. 

“ _Papa_ helped me drawed these,” the boy clarified, pointing to the blond figure floating above the other figures obviously the members of the house. 

"Papa's gone to Heaven, remember?" Pepper corrected, but the boy just shook his his adamantly, whispering "no" over and over as he started rocking back and forth. Tony kneeled down to hold his son.

“Hey, hey, it's ok, Petey. Thank you for the drawings, I like them very much.” The boy scrunched his face as the smell of whiskey on his father’s breath burned him. “You be a good boy for Nanny Pepper, and you will get to ride a train to come see me, and then we'll ride a boat on the lake.” Peter's face was red and his eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he calmly nodded with a brave face that Tony knew he didn’t learn from him. He placed Peter's drawings in his briefcase and closed the clasp, aware he didn't have much time before he had to leave.

Happy drove the carriage to the station, and once Tony found an empty car on the train, he sat to review the portfolio. He couldn’t focus on it though, instead distracted by Peter’s drawing on top. He ran his finger over the simple figure of the man he missed with every fiber of his being. He shut his case when he couldn't take it anymore, and then reached for his flask with one hand while the other pulled out of his pocket his watch with the small likeness inside, drawn and colored in pencil. 

After a few gulps of the liquor, he could almost convince himself that the eyes had real life in them, that the cheeks were ruddy with excitement and arousal, that the lips were not frozen in a modest smile but could be moved to laugh and to frown and to smirk. His head lulled back against the seat and his eyes slipped shut. He rested the pocket watch against his chest, the faint vibrations of the gears turning the hands guided his heart to keep beating, prevented it from ripping apart into a thousand pieces. 

More drink couldn’t chase away the thoughts and visions now, and without anyone around to impress, Tony instead yearned for them to move close to keep him company. He drifted toward sleep, hearing the sweet deep voice sighing his name over and over until Tony couldn’t help but softly cry in return, “Steve.”


	2. December 23, 1911

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony meets Steve at a party, and naturally, they have a disagreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: All even numbered chapters are flashbacks / take place in the past. This chapter is set 7.5 years before the previous chapter.

Tony had never gone more than a few weeks without having to attend a tea, a luncheon, or a party thrown by one of this father's associates. And of all the social gatherings and obligatory visits that were required of him, his favorite had always been the Carters' Christmas Party. Lady Carter, stern yet soft-hearted when it came to her godson, had been a friend of the family since before Tony was born. Her husband, although quiet and reserved since the war, was never stringy with a warm smile nor a penny-candy. There had been many times in his youth Tony had wished desperately that he could have just lived with them in their home instead of the boarding schools his father sent him to once his mother passed away. The Carters' house was comfortable and the first place Tony learned how to be happy. More importantly, from them he learned how to be loved, especially at Christmas. 

Their house every winter season was bright and merry with extra lamps and candles, evergreen boughs tied with ribbon tucked into every available nook and cranny. At all of the Carters' gatherings, music and punch flowed as men in their finest suits and ladies in their nicest gowns talked, and danced, and drank, and sang, and laughed. That year's party was not any different than any of the others Tony could remember-- the same cheerful songs, the same delicious foods, the same smiling faces. He was content to hide behind the large decorated juniper tree for most the of the night just observing everyone else while sipping his punch, letting the comfort of familiar traditions amuse him until he would get back to his laboratory. However, the hostess sneaked up behind him and took his arm, giving him a start.

"My little Duckie," she cooed at him.

"Aunt Margaret, I'm thirty-five now, a captain of industry, you can't keep calling me that."

"Like hell I can't, Duckie." She pinched his cheek. "Have you been good this year?"

"Yes, business is doing quite well."

"And in your personal affairs?" Tony suppressed his desire to roll his eyes, instead trying to change the subject.

"Aunt Margaret, how well you look! I say, there must be a portrait of you in the attic becoming more ragged by the day." Lady Carter _did_ roll her eyes and playfully slapped his arm.

"Try as you might, you will get nothing more from me this year, my dear. Your gift is already wrapped, so you can stop your flateries."

"But they are truths! You taught me at Christmas I must speak my heart, and that is it. You look absolutely lovely tonight." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and she gave him a sly smile in return.

"Thank you, Duckie. Since you mentioned portraits," Lady Carter lead him to the side hallway where Lord Carter's office was but paused at the door, "I want to show you a gift I had made for your Uncle Daniel." She opened the door to a room lined with leather bound books in dark wood bookshelves. There was a stately desk and a worn wing-backed chair by a fireplace, and unlike the rest of the house, the study was deserted except for one person.

"What luck!" she exclaimed then quickly added, "I've been looking for you for the past half hour!" The figure startled at being discovered and spilled half of the drink in his hand as he turned to face the door.

"Lady Carter!" his voice cracked, and his big clear azure eyes blinked rapidly, darting between the two. His pale drawn cheeks started to blush. "I... I am sorry. I wanted to see how the light made it look, and the door was closed, but not locked, and you were right, this frame balances out the mantel well, but... I... shouldn't have trespassed. I'm so sorry." He trailed off breathless and hung his head, causing the longer locks of his blond hair to fall forward and cover the long eyelashes Tony could see from across the room.

"Mr. Rogers, come now, I cannot have you have one of your episodes during the party. There is no trespass. I am glad you are here as I wanted to introduce you to a dear friend. Mr. Anthony Stark this is Mr. Steve Rogers, artist extraordinaire." Tony extended his hand and was surprised by the warm and firm shake from the tenderly built man in front of him.

"Mr. Stark." The blond nodded and Tony's heart fluttered at the way his name sounded coming out of his mouth. Everyone he had ever met could only see him as Howard Stark's son, but this small young man in front of him said his name as if he had never even heard of him before. It was exhilarating, but before he could say anything in return, one of the servants was at the door.

"Lady Carter, Sir is about to make the toast and has requested your presence."

"Of course!" She clapped her gloved hands and glided toward the door. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me. Please, talk more of art. Tony's very interested in how the portrait is aging for me. Fill him in on the details, won't you?" She smirked and disappeared down the hallway, leaving the two alone.

"You don't have to stay. I imagine you would want to be out there for the toast," the artist suggested.

"It's been the same toast for the past thirty years." Tony raised his empty punch glass and did his best Lord Carter impersonation. " _To God, to country, to love and peace._ Then everyone drinks and they sing some carol that goes on for nine verses but I only know the first half of the first one." Tony lowered his arm and squinted at the portrait, trying to take in the detail of the brushstrokes. The two of them looked at it in silence until Steve spoke again.

"The painting won't change. The story isn't about aging really; it's about sins. I'm not sure Lady Carter would do anything that would ever alter the picture."

"You know Wilde? So, not only are you talented and a pretty face but also well-read." Tony looked over to see a bit of color return to Steve's cheeks.

"Well, no one has ever accused me of being--"

"--well-read?" Tony offered.

"--a pretty face," Steve corrected.

"I guess not everyone can be a genius."

"Mr. Stark--"

"I wouldn't mind your calling me Tony now."

"But I don't know you."

"But you will know me."

"Will I?" Steve now gave a side glance to Tony who was still looking at the painting above the fire.

"Oh yes, you will do a portrait of me and get to know me quite well, so you may as well start calling me Tony."

"I don't paint gentlemen, Mr. Stark."

"No worries on that part, I am often quite the cad." Steve laughed at that confession, and to Tony it was glorious how Steve's right hand clutched his own chest in tandem.

"I mean I only paint portraits of ladies," he managed to get out.

"Why is that? You have difficulty with beards?" Tony's hand grazed over his meticulously styled chin. Steve looked only at the portrait.

"It's just better this way--- for me."

"I will pay you double your rate."

"You'll pay me nothing because I am not painting you, Mr. Stark." Steve was polite about it, smiling sweetly, but there was a tinge of firmness in the tone that only excited the older man more.

"I always get what I want."

"My mother used to say it is only a fool who tempts fate with absolutes." 

"Did she say anything about fools who turn down a double commission for a portrait that will be seen by every person of means in the city, no doubt generating further commissions?" Steve turned and stepped closer to the other man.

"I'm not being a fool. Can't you see? The reason is right there!" He gestured to the canvas. "My portraits are private. Gentlemen want portraits of themselves to hang in the halls of their businesses and their billiard rooms. My works are for intimate spaces, small beloved audiences-- for husbands and fathers who must work away from their darlings, for mothers whose married daughters have had to move away. You would want a portrait that will be a testament to your strength and wealth, but I would only want to focus your handsome face and body." Steve cut himself off with a hand over his mouth, a gasp at his own unintended confession of his feelings. He turned away from Tony, but the dark haired man made up the difference, stepping closer still to Steve. He placed a heavy hand on Steve's wrist and squeezed, pulling it away from his face and commanding his attention.

"I will pay you triple--"

"I don't paint gentlemen," Steve said again, but softer this time as he timidly looked up at Tony.

"--for a portrait of myself for myself, no one else would ever see, to be kept in the attic, absorbing all my sins." Tony smirked, holding Steve's gaze and slowly nodding his head to make the blond agree.

"It would take some time," Steve could only whisper in response.

"Good," Tony whispered back, "I want to spend some time with you." Tony leaned in and kissed Steve's pink lips, any protest present fading away as the young man's body melted under the attention. His hands came up to Tony's shoulders grasping at the fabric of his jacket, trying to hold himself up. Tony held Steve's face in his palms, steadying them both. When Tony finally pulled back, Steve opened his eyes slowly and swallowed.

"Does, um, next Thursday work for you, Mr. Stark?"

"Only if you call me Tony." Steve softly chuckled while slightly shaking his head with a smile.

"Alright then, Tony."

"Alright then, Steve."


	3. May 13, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony meets a stranger on a train.

-Monday Afternoon-

Tony startled awake at the sound of coughing, snapping his eyes open and ready to comfort Steve through yet another painful fit. However, instead of seeing his lover curled next to him on his bed, there was only a balding stranger sitting across from him on the train. The man lowered his handkerchief and smiled with tight lips.

"Apologies, the city air has never quite agreed with me." Tony straightened up and ran his hand over her face, trying to shake the grogginess that remained from his unintended nap.

"It's not a problem, I just though I was alone." He rested his hand on his side, wanting to touch his pocket-watch once more. When he didn't feel it, he looked down and frantically patted at all of his pockets.

"This was on the floor when I came in." The man held up Tony's open watch by its chain, offering it back. Tony swiped it so fast, it shocked them both.

"I just--"

"No, no. I understand. That's a Steven Rogers, isn't it?" Tony jerked his gaze to the man's face from the watch as he snapped it shut protectively.

"Who are you? Do I know you?"

"I don't believe so." He extended his hand. "Philip Coulson, I'm rarely in the city, have you ever been to the Coul & Son Feed in Odinsville? I own it."

"No, I can't say I have, but funny you should ask, Mr. Coulson, I am traveling to that very town today for business." He shook the hand offered to him. "Anthony Stark--"

"Of Stark Incorporated?" Mr. Coulson raised an eyebrow.

"One and the same." Tony pulled his hand back and felt Coulson's eyes sweep the entire of his person, no doubt reconciling all the newspaper stories of his exploits with the man who was just passed out on an early afternoon train. "You knew Mr. Rogers?"

"Not personally unfortunately, just by his work. I have a portrait of my daughter when she was four he painted some years ago." Tony mind finally made proper sense of the earlier question about the picture in his watch, and relaxed.

"Ah yes, this," he patted the pocket his watch was now in, "was done by Mr. Rogers, too."

"I knew it. His style is so unique and extraordinary; isn't it? My better half had taken her into the city that spring and had the portrait made and sent back to me as a surprise. It is still remarkable how life like it is, as if she could just skip out of the frame and ask for a story like she used to. I would have had him continue on every year, but--"

"--he quit taking commissions," Tony finished for him. Mr. Coulson's face fell slightly and he stared down at his hands.

"Yes, that, too," he barley mumbled. Tony shifted, wanting to ask for clarification but a flash of lightning and the following thunder rumbling outside distracted him.

"I thought it was supposed to be sunny this afternoon."

"Maybe in the city, but it's rarely sunny in Odinsville this time of year."

"Really, even this late in the season?"

"Yes, it has been worse here for the past few years. The mountains to the west send thunderstorms and the lake to the north dense patches of fog. The crops will hardly grow and sometimes it's easy to get confused without any guidance."

"Peter will be so disappointed if we are unable to go out on water," Tony lamented and glanced at his briefcase.

"Peter?" Mr. Coulson asked while gesturing to Tony's pocket.

"No, no. Peter is my son. He'll be joining me later this week after I've finalized everything on the manor." Mr. Coulson again looked away from Tony but this time out of the window to the dark silhouettes of the leafless trees passing by against the gray sky. "Have I said something?"

"Asgard Manor?" Mr. Coulson clarified.

"Yes." The older man sighed at the response and flexed his fingers.

"Please don't think me foolish on this because I don't believe in such matters personally, but others in the village will not be pleased to hear of your intentions."

"You misunderstand-- this isn't a summer home for me. We're going to build a factory, make good work for able men, improve--"

"No one will want to work there."

"We pay decent wages, and with the war on, business is literally booming."

"It's not that. Most believe the manor and its fields are," he paused and closed his eyes while pinching the bridge of his nose, "haunted." Tony barked a laugh. Of all the things he expected the other man to say, this was certainly not one of them.

"I was unaware this train also traveled through time. What year are we going back to, 1876?"

"Mr. Stark, it isn't like it is in the city. The way of life here is different here, and old ways die hard."

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Coulson, truly I do, but I have found it's easy to alter the old ways, you just have to have the right amount to make it change." The train slowed down as it approached the station, and Tony could see the sign announcing Odinsville. "Looks like this is us."

When the train came to a halt, the two men gathered their things and put on their hats. Almost the moment they stepped out on to the platform, the engine started again and the train continued its journey west. So unlike Grand Central, the small open stop was vacant and silent. If there were any birds in the bare branches of the trees, they did not chirp or sing out.

"Would you like a ride into town?" Mr. Coulson broke the silence with his offer while walking towards the Chevy Royal Mail Roadster parked by the closed ticket office.

"Thank you, but I believe someone is scheduled to drive me into town already," Tony lied. Mr. Coulson knitted his brow, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Well then, if you have an opportunity I would love to have you over for dinner. Tomorrow at six?" He presented his card from his pocket. "We live just east of town, no more than a half hour's walk from the inn."

"Thank you, that sounds lovely." Tony gave his best professional smile, the one that couldn't cover the sadness always present in his eyes. Mr. Coulson waved as Tony stood and watched him drive away on the dirt road.

Despite the threatening clouds, Tony waited at the station for ten minutes, staring straight ahead. Then he carried his briefcase and suitcase with his left hand and followed on foot, holding his open pocket-watch in his right.


	4. February 27, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's portrait for Tony is almost complete.

"You bite your lip whenever you are thinking too hard," Tony teased as Steve, at the other side of Tony's bedroom, looked over the blue paints at his disposal.

"You aren't supposed to be talking; I'm trying to finish the details of your face," Steve admonished back without looking up.

"It's so adorable though, like you are making a difficult decision."

"I _am_ making a difficult decision. Your eyes are hard to pin down. Sometimes they look brown, then other times they look dark blue." Steve's fingers ran over the tube he wanted.

"You're mad. My eyes are brown."

"That sometimes are blue."

"Steve, I've had my eyes all my life. I've spent copious hours staring at mirrors. I know my eyes. Come here and see for yourself." Tony patted his lap with a lascivious smile.

"You aren't supposed to be talking," Steve replied as he put a small amount on his palette. Tony strained a bit to see how the thin brush Steve picked up was like an extension of his slender finger. The artist took a calming breath and then began to add another layer to the canvas. Tony kept his face still, but his fingertips drummed on the chair's arms.

Sitting for the portrait all those weeks had been more than difficult for Tony. At each session, he had to bottle all of his energy and desire to leap across the room and smother Steve in affection. Each time when they had been finished for the day, Tony would take Steve to the billiard room, offer him a drink that would always be refused, and then hold and kiss him until Steve pulled away. Each time the blond gave his genuine regrets that he had another appointment. Tony had had his growing frustrations relieved by the ladies at the bordello on those nights, but for all their expertise, it was never quite enough. Now his knee was bouncing erratically in protest of the restraint. Steve's arm moved down from the canvas, and again he was chewing his bottom lip, looking back between Tony and the work.

"It's not right," Steve sighed and slumped down. "It's just all wrong."

"It can't be _all_ wrong. Here, let me see." Tony rose from his chair as the sun was starting to set outside the window beside him.

"No!" Steve shouted. "I don't want you to see it until it's finished."

"You've been working on it for months, and I've been good in keeping my curiosity in check, but I'm done sitting!"

"But I need more time!" Steve's panic as palpable. He dropped his palette and tried to cover the picture with his body. However, the ratio was against his slight build. Standing behind him, Tony hooked one arm around Steve's waist and drew him back until his back was pressed against Tony's chest.

"Calm down," Tony spoke softly by Steve's left ear. "Why are you making such a fuss? It's just..." Tony's words died as he saw the painting for the first time.

He would have sworn it was a photograph, but those were not as crisp and of course not as colorful as this painting. Painting-Tony was sitting comfortably in his yellow-gold reading chair, and the fabric looked as if you would feel velvet instead of oil if you touched it. The red brocade of his dressing gown was an exact replica of the pattern, the folds and wrinkles at his elbow flawless. While Tony had faced Steve the whole sitting, complete with a undying fond smile, his double in the picture was gazing out the window.

"Where did this come from?" Tony asked while gesturing to the change.

"I thought it was a better reflection of you, not bogged down by the past--" Steve pointed at the abandoned book on Painting-Tony's lap, the weave of the Italian linen on the cover visible. "But instead looking out into the world, towards adventure and whatever the day brings you." Steve's original concern at painting Tony was now painfully obvious-- every part was thought out, every detail, every brush stroke was testament to Steve's feelings for Tony. Lady Carter's portrait had shown his admiration for her, this portrait showed his love for Tony.

"Steve, this is magnificent. You even made me look younger."

"That's how you look."

"That's not what my skin looks like in the mirror."

"You're probably looking in the wrong light."

"Or with the wrong pair of blue eyes." Tony moved one of his hands up across Steve's chest. "It's perfect."

"No, I-- I need more time."

"To do what?" Steve tried to move forward, but Tony didn't loosen his grip.

"To get it perfect," Steve confessed. "This is my one chance to paint you, and I want to do it well." 

"Oh, Steve, you didn't really think I was going to quit at one did you?"

"What?"

"I am going to need another portrait, one with me standing." Steve huffed in amusement, a small smile creeping up.

"You didn't like any of the standing poses we tried at the beginning."

"Well, now that I know I don't have to stay perfectly still--" Tony swayed them side to side.

"But I _do_ need you to stay perfectly still!"

"Obviously not! I didn't even need to be quiet as you weren't really painting my face!"

"I couldn't really paint your face because you wouldn't be quiet! I timed you, you couldn't even go a half minute!"

"Oh really?" Tony challenged, turning Steve's head to face him and kissing him deep. Steve smelled so nice and felt so perfect in his arms, that even though he was slightly distracted marking the seconds to prove that he could be quiet when necessary, he was becoming achingly hard. His hips rocked against Steve as he bit the blond's bottom lip. When they had gone a minute, Tony released his grip.

"I have another appointment," Steve lamented.

"Another appointment?" Tony almost sang.

"Yes, I'm meeting a new patron at the cafe."

"The one around the corner?"

"Yes, how--?"

"It's me. Your next appointment is with me."

"What?"

"I am Ron Mann." Steve's mouth dropped as Tony continued. "You're always scurrying off, so I wanted to make sure I could get a little more of your time. And since we are both here, and I don't feel like going out, we'll just have the meeting here."

"Tony--"

"I would like to commission, in addition to that standing portrait, a small miniature of a young man I fancy. He has brilliant hair and always-blue eyes and the patience of a saint, so I don't believe it'll be a problem for him to sit for you." Tony kissed Steve again, but the blond turned away and looked down at his smock.

"Are you just commissioning me so you can kiss me more?"

"Steve, if I was paying for the kissing, you would be underselling yourself at this price. I'm paying you to paint. I'm kissing you because you are delicious." Tony kissed and lightly licked the soft skin exposed behind Steve's ear. Steve whimpered and leaned back towards Tony. "With business now done," Tony rumbled so low, "you'll stay for supper, and we'll spend sometime without a canvas between us." Steve swallowed.

"I'm not sure what to do if I'm not painting," he confessed. Tony reached up to slowly stroke Steve's cheek with his thumb.

"That's alright, just follow my lead."


	5. May 13, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets a not-so-warm welcome when trying to find the Town Clerk

-Monday Evening-

Although Tony never saw the lightning, the low distant rumble of thunder kept him from walking too slowly into town. he looked down to the watch every other minute, almost feeling a soft hand in his instead of the warm metal. When a steady rain began, he put the watch away and used the umbrella Jarvis thoughtfully had packed "just in case." He walked along the muddy road in silence past dozens of abandoned small farms, the wild grass growing in the paths from the road to the rusted plows and derelict shacks.

Mr. Coulson's warning of dense fog had not been false, but luckily Tony had reached the center of the small town by twilight before visibility had been too badly compromised. The half dozen streets were crammed with little stone and wood structures; one right next to each other. Some had small gardens fenced off from the road, adding the only bits of green to the dark gray and blue that dominated the town. Like the station, the streets were empty of not only people but of the usual dogs, cats, and horses that populate such places. Without the pings of the rain hitting the puddles and his umbrella, Tony would have been even more off put. 

It took walking down the main road twice before he could identify the town clerk's office by the telegraph sign in the window. He tried to open the door but it would not budge. He knocked quickly, but after a few minutes, still received no reply. Frustrated at the abandonment and the chill overtaking him, he beat savagely at the wood until a man from the next house over came out.

"You will injure yourself quite badly before ever getting a dent on that door," the man advised. Tony's hands and jaw clenched.

"Well, then I'll just go to the doc--" Tony hissed then faltered as he turned and saw the caduceus on a hanging sign above the bespectacled man. "--tor."

"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, especially as in this case, it's free. Stop pounding on the door. No one is in." Tony was particularly irritated at how the man was so calm, as well as his own plans falling through. He hated that he was here, that he was alone, that everything about the situation was just wrong. He kicked the door as hard as he could once more to let off some steam, but the doctor's demeanor changed almost instantly at the action.

"SIR!" he actually snarled. "My wife is suffering from a migraine at the moment. You _will_ keep the noise level to a minimum." Tony startled as if he had been slapped.

"I- I apologize. I've traveled so far today. I'm not myself, and lost my decorum." Tony sighed and tried his charm. "I had an appointment with Mr. Barnes scheduled."

"Mr. Barnes?" the doctor asked in a once again calm voice, raising one eyebrow.

"As I said, Barnes the clerk."

"Ah. You, um, should go to the inn. I think you'll find what you need at the pub."

Tony looked up and down the foggy street. "Which way?"

"Just down that way, sign with two birds on it." The man pushed his glasses up his nose and pointed towards a dim alley.

"Thank you, Doctor. Again, I am sorry about the disturbance." The shaggy-haired man just nodded slightly and returned to his home. Tony could hear the lock turn as he walked by on his way to The Falcon and The Eagle.

The only chair taken in the small establishment was by a ginger woman at the bar speaking softly with a stern brunette wearing an apron and cleaning glassware. As Tony entered, both stopped and turned to glare at him. Their piercing gazes followed as he tried to remove as much mud and rain from his boots and coat before joining them.

"Ladies, I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I am looking for a Mr. Barnes. Do either of you know where I may find him?" The ginger's eyes became even more sharp.

"What business would you have with him?"

"Well, madam, I need to speak with him in regards to a property I am interested in purchasing. I have tried his address but was directed here, so--"

"Mr. Barnes is gone. He's been gone for a long time now," the patron replied as she moved her spoon back and forth in the bowl of stew in front of her. Tony rested his briefcase on the bar top to retrieve his itinerary.

"This doesn't make sense. See right here?" He pointed at Stane's perfect writing written that very morning. " _Town Clerk, Barnes_."

"I am the town clerk, _Mrs_. Barnes, and I don't do business after hours." She took a spoonful of mostly potato without paying him much mind.

"Oh, I... didn't realize it would be a--"

"I didn't realize it would be me either until my husband went off for the damn war. Seemed I was the only one who understood his ways, his organization system of the papers, how to work the telegraph."

"Wonderful, we can begin. Here is my letter of introduction, I would like to see the manor as soon as possible."

"Asgard Manor?" the barmaid gasped, dropping the stein that had been in her hands. It shattered into small shards as she stared at him with big eyes. Mrs. Barnes gently touched the other woman's hand, communicating something more with a whispered "Maria" that sent the woman to the back. She then brought her spoon to her lips once again, and after swallowing clarified. 

"I don't do business after hours."

"Of course, you want to finish your supper. Then we can go back, start the paper work."

"I don't do business after hours, sir. My office opens at nine tomorrow morning, but in the end, you're not going to buy Asgard Manor. It would be better that you just go back to where you came from, and we don't waste either of our time with a little charade. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a cat to put out." She brushed her hands over the bowl and pushed it away.

"Wait!" Tony grabbed her arm, preventing her from leaving. "I'm buying the manor this week. You can't legally stop me. I've already heard the rumors, and I don't care what superstitions this little town buys into. I'm a man of science, and I don't believe in ghosts." She twisted her arm out of his grip, pitching him towards the bar. He barely caught himself in time from smashing his face against the polished wood. He turned to watch as she walked away, pausing before she got to the door and looking over her shoulder with dead eyes.

"It's remarkable how science and ghosts are so alike-- their validity is completely independent of your believing in them."


	6. March 17, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Tony, an argument with Howard influences a later conversation with Steve.

Sunday morning brunches at his father's mansion were always better when others attended as well. When the Carters or business associates were there, Howard and Tony, for the sake of appearances, could be civil with each other. That dreary March's meal, however, only had the two men poking at poached eggs while having stilted conversation. Tony eyed the morning edition folded on the corner of the table. It could save them from pretending to care about the previous week's engagements of the other. The mantle clock chimed at the half hour, and Tony tried to think of the best way to suggest splitting the paper when Howard cleared his throat.

"Anthony--" Tony clenched his hand under the table at the way his father addressed him, but kept a pleasant smile.

"Father."

"I received a letter this week from Wadsworth." Tony knit his brows, perplexed as to why his butler would be writing his father. 

"Is he unhappy in my employment?"

"Concerned," Howard corrected and took the letter from his vest pocket. "He writes that you have been having a young boy at your house for the past few months."

"A young boy? I don't know of any young-- Oh! He must mean Steve--" Tony caught himself as Howard looked up from the paper. "--Rogers. Mr. Rogers is a great painter, and I've commissioned a portrait. He painted Lady Carter last autumn. She can testify to his artistic talent."

"Yes, that's all very fine and well, but here Wadsworth goes on about your taking the evening meal with him every night you aren't otherwise engaged. Seems a bit much for just a portrait." Howard placed the letter beside his coffee and looked at his son while tenting his fingers. Under his fathers glaring eye, Tony took a bite of his dry toast, chewing slowly. Knowing the first to speak is the one who loses, Tony silently, stubbornly, glared back, watching Howard's patience burn away. The older man finally slammed his hand on the table, rattling the china set out but not his son.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Tony wiped the crumbs from his goatee and smirked. "I was unaware I was being observed, and believe I shall be advertizing for a new butler tomorrow. I would ask if you knew anyone, but that appears to be my particular problem with the help," he replied coolly.

"I know what you're doing and am so disappointed. I raised you better than this!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Tony pointed at Howard's nose. "You didn't do one iota of raising me. That was the task of nannies, and tutors, and boarding schools. So no, you don't get to put one of your patents on me."

"Tell me this--" Howard shook the paper at Tony. "--isn't true. Tell me!" Tony stared at his father for a half minute before shaking his head.

"It's not true," Tony assured and his father let out a sigh of relief, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. "Mr. Rogers is well into his twenties, just looks youthful which bothers him but I really don't mind at all." Howard slammed his cup back onto its plate.

"Anthony Edward Stark! Do you realize what you are risking?"

"No one knew except Wadsworth and maybe the valet."

"Your little painter doesn't talk?"

"No."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he's a good man." Howard's face ticked slightly on his right side.

"But he's not the man, right?" Howard asked. Tony couldn't help but rolling his eyes.

"We are both men, Father, that's why you are upset," he condescendingly explained.

"You know what I mean," Howard spat. Tony flexed his fist again, yearning to just rear back and really let him have it.

Instead he replied through clenched teeth, "Yes, I'm 'the man.'"

"At least there's that. I will deal with your being a pervert, but a faerie..." Howard quirked his eyebrows and took a sip of his coffee. "You know those kinds are always just after money."

"And on that note, I will be off." Tony threw his napkin at his plate as he rose and left the dinning room, finding Jarvis in the hall. "Please call a hack for me, I am leaving."

"Yes, Master Tony."

His father's words echoed over and over in his head, mocking the feelings that he had developed, distracting him from the hard rain falling as he rode through town. When he was half way home, he remembered Steve's unease weeks ago at the lavish dinners Tony had planned for their evenings together and then Steve's insistent protests when Tony had presented him with three new suits after realizing Steve wore the same second-hand gray one each time he visited. Steve had never asked for money, even turned it down when Tony tried to give him some for the rides home.

Tony got the driver's attention and they changed routes to head over the bridge. Although Tony had found Steve's address months ago from some associates, he had never actually been invited to see it before. But he was too upset and distracted as he climbed the stairwell to mind the faux paux of showing up uninvited and unannounced midday on a Sunday. It took Steve a few minutes to answer the knock, and his look of surprise upon opening the door was only surpassed by Tony's own look of horror. Steve's cheeks were a splotchy red and his nose raw. His left hand clutched a handkerchief while the other tried to cover the ripped shoulder seam of his tattered wool dressing gown.

"Dony? Whad are _you_ doin' here?"

"What are you doing _here_?" Tony stepped across the threshold into the spartan room, taking it in. Along one side was a small bed tucked between a cold fireplace and a wall of windows. A pile of thin, pieced quilts were rumpled on the mattress. Opposite was a basin and jug on a small chest of drawers and next to that pegs where the gifted suits hung. There was Steve's easel, some canvases, and what looked like other art supplies piled in a corner and covered with an oil cloth. Throughout the small room was an array of bowls, cups, and even a pot scattered to collect the random drops of rain leaking through the roof. 

"Dis is where I lib."

"How is it colder in here than it is outside?" Tony moved towards the unused fireplace, looking for some wood but unable to find any.

"Don'd be dramadic, Id's nod dad bad," Steve admonished then sneezed.

"And how long have you been ill? I just saw you Wednesday." He held Steve's face in his hands, seeing how his eyes were glazed and unfocused. "You're burning up. What did the doctor say?" Steve averted his eyes and tried to shake out of Tony's hold, but couldn't until a cold drop fell on Tony's head and he jumped away in surprise.

"That's it! You're not staying here." Tony turned around trying to find a trunk for Steve's things. 

"Dony--" Steve reached out to him.

"This is far below what is acceptable." He threw back the collection of bed covers and looked under the mattress for a suitcase or bag.

"D-D-D-Dony--" Steve tried to sound annoyed but he was starting to have chills and his jaw wouldn't cooperate. 

"No arguments, you will live with me at my house." As the words left his mouth, both men were frozen on the spot. He hadn't intended the visit to turn out this way, but in his heart it was what he wanted. He wanted Steve, to have him, to keep him for himself alone, and this way he would see him more, and at the same time prove Howard wrong. _Steve was a good man._

Steve stood for a few moments, dazed but trying hard to focus until all he could do was sigh and nod his head in agreement.

That afternoon, Wadsworth relocated to Howard's house, and Tony's loyal valet Hogan gained a promotion. Steve was set up in a room where he slept far more comfortably in the warm bed and a borrowed nightshirt a size too large. That evening they took their supper of consommé and crackers there, allowing Steve to continue to rest. Then Tony read all of the day's papers aloud until first the blond under the covers then he himself in the chair nodded off.


	7. May 13, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finds a room to stay for the night.

Monday Evening

Tony sat alone, trying to regain his composure from the jostle, waiting for the barmaid to return, and staring at the broken glass still scattered along the floor. While the storm continued on outside, he could hear the muffled discussion happening on the other side of the kitchen's door as the voices grew louder.

"He said he was going to buy it, Sammy! I'm not going back out there while he's here."

"Honey, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. I'll take care of it," a deep voice answered. Tony tried to hide his surprise when a dark-skinned man with a long apron tied around his waist came back out. For the first time since he had arrived at Odinsville, someone actually smiled at Tony.

"Good evening, sir. Tonight we have beef stew for fifteen cents."

"I'll just have a pint of ale." The man looked back to the door.

"Sorry, but this here is a temperate establishment." Tony closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, and took a deep breath.

"There must be _something_..."

"Could get you a hot cup of coffee, looks like you could use the warm up before getting on to your place for the night."

"Are you Mr. Wilson?" Tony sighed again.

"Yes, sir."

"Then I don't have to go far; there should be a room under the name Stark."

"I don't think we got that message, and all the rooms have been let already," Mr. Wilson said a hair too loud, again looking back towards the kitchen.

"Well, can you point me to another inn?"

"There isn't..." he trailed off and gave Tony a pitying look.

"So, where should I go? You're the friendliest person I've met in this no-horse town, and you're giving me the bum's rush."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," Mr. Wilson said as he wrote on the order pad by the register, "but you can't stay here." Then he moved the paper so Tony could see.

_Get your things and follow me up the stairs._

"Do we understand each other?" Mr. Wilson asked while nodding his head towards the kitchen door.

"Yes, I'll take that coffee, and then be on my way," Tony replied while nodding his head. He quietly fetched his coat and bags, then followed the owner to the top of the staircase. Mr. Wilson carefully selected a bronze key from the ring in his pocket and without a sound unlocked the door there. The smell of settled dust and stale air filled Tony's nostrils until the sulfur of a struck match lighting a long candle took its place.

"There's a pan under the bed, don't touch anything else. Maria checks the door every night before retiring. That'll be about three hours from now. This candle should be out before then, or you'll be out. Understand?"

Tony nodded and pressed a few folded bills into the other man's hand.

"I'll let you out when she's tending the chickens." He crumpled the bills into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. Tony didn't refuse the offer.

"Thank you," Tony murmured.

"Remember, don't make a sound."

"I"ll be like the dead."

Mr. Wilson pulled back as if the words had harmed him but didn't say anything else. He locked the door behind him, and Tony was left alone again. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he removed his shoes to investigate his lodging. The bed was not big, but after a few test pushes, Tony deemed it quiet and satisfactory. There were a few wood blocks and a model ship on a tattered rag rug in one corner, a teddy bear on the rocking chair opposite. Between them, the lone window was uncovered, but the storm made it too dark to see much beyond a few dots of light at others' houses.

Tony found a silver frame on the low table by the bed. The barmaid, Maria, was standing next to a seated Mr. Wilson who had a small boy on his lap. Their fresh faces and the shape of her dress made it clear this photo had not been taken recently. He picked it up and wiped away the dust to read the white print on the photograph.

_Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Wilson with Trip, age 4._

He placed the picture back and drank all of the new flask in one go. He removed his jacket and vest, and laid on his side on the bed, tucking his legs in close. For heat he pulled his jacket over him as a cover, not wanting to disturb the room anymore. For a half hour, he stared at his watch portrait by the candle light.

The day had turned so quickly from that morning, but his evening routine had not really been altered. He rarely took supper anymore; reading, music, or even working offered no enjoyment; and sleep came to him at its own discretion if at all. He could hear the faint sound of people talking below as he wiped the tears from his cheek and snuffed out the flame. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a home that no longer was there for him.

Sometime later, he startled awake at the sound of a soft rapping. The earlier storm had passed, and the almost full moon shone through the window panes. The house was quiet, and Tony's eyes started to close when the tapping began again. There on the sill was a dark bird knocking its beak. It was as if the bird was staring at him as it kept its rhythm against the glass.

_Dit dah dit -- dit -- dah dit dit_

Tony groggily moved to the window.

_Dit dah dit -- dit -- dah dit dit_

He tried to shoo it away, but the bird continued on as it stared at him.

_Dit dah dit -- dit -- dah dit dit_

Tony pulled at the handle to open the window, but it had been nailed shut. He knocked back on the glass, but the bird would not leave; it just continued tapping. Tony finally gave up when a chill went through him, crawled back into the bed, and tried to fall asleep again, desperate for the morning.


End file.
